


Your Hastings

by ArcheaMajuar



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Episode Related, First Kiss, M/M, Poirot's POV, Seasickness, The Million Dollar Bond Robbery (3x02)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27012943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcheaMajuar/pseuds/ArcheaMajuar
Summary: You must begin at once the packing.Where are we going?!On Queen Mary.You and me?
Relationships: Arthur Hastings/Hercule Poirot
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Ten Váš Hastings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20921849) by [ArcheaMajuar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcheaMajuar/pseuds/ArcheaMajuar). 



> English is not my mother tongue as I'm from the Czech Republic. There are mistakes in the story, I know, but I don't have anyone around to give me their feedback on the fic, grammar and so on (but if you'd like to let me know about the mistakes, please, do so in the comments bellow or just send me an email (you find it on my profile page), it'd be much appreciated)
> 
> I'm really sorry for the errors, but I hope you'll enjoy this work anyway :)

Waiting for the case to take its own course and, hopefully, unravel in that particular direction he anticipated, the Belgian detective genuinely began enjoying the cruise aboard Queen Mary. All the prepared meals were delicious, the weather pleasant as well as the groups of fellow travellers, yet the whole trip was marred for him to some extent. During the past journeys, it was Poirot who tent to spend most of the time locked in his cabin, suffering from being seasick and lamenting on his decision to leave the solid ground and experience such a dreadful adventures, however, when being on Queen Mary, Poirot felt rather good unlike his dear Hastings. Of course, the detective was aware that as much as nausea is annoying, it should fade away quickly, still he was truly sorry for his friend, especially because the Englishman was looking forward to the cruise like a little child.

Although Poirot didn’t wish to hear any of Hasting’s silly ideas at first, in the end they were able to enrich a pleasant event with something really meaningful as Poirot was asked to watch over bonds and also the man responsible for them. Unfortunately, Monsieur Ridgeway wasn’t endowed with much of responsibility, thus Poirot was trusted to aid him, which the detective perceived as a plausible excuse to venture over the Atlantic ocean, yet deep down he knew that he assented on Hastings’ account as well.

He was glad to make his friend happy, and the moment in which the Englishman realized they were, indeed, going to board on Queen Mary kept resonating in Poirot’s mind and soul. Smiling at the memory, he could vividly rekindle the way Hastings was staring at him in surprise.

_You must begin at once the packing._

_Where are we going?!_

_On Queen Mary._

_You and me?_

The last Hastings’ question hit Poirot hard. His voice vibrating with excitement, his blue eyes gleaming, and despite Poirot wasn’t able to live without solving peculiar cases, moments like this gently reminded him that there were other things worth living for. And the Belgian detective sensed that such a moment belonged to these things as he could recall the memory numerous times, yet it didn’t lose its magic at all.

_You and me?_

Yes, Hastings, you because there’s no other person in the world I would love to spend four days on Queen Mary, mused Poirot as a small smile creased his lips. His heart swell in a rather delicate way when his emotions got the better of him, making him finally admit that he wouldn’t have ever traded comfort of his London flat for anybody else but Hastings and his cheerfully shining eyes.

However, what he was supposed to do to make his friend feel better… He didn’t know. The Englishman’s condition improved during the past day, but his recovery was only a fleeting one as in the evening, Hastings sought the privacy of his own cabin again, unwilling to come out even at the prospect of lunch. And because of that, Poirot acknowledged the severity of the situation as Hastings without appetite was, indeed, a rather suffering Hastings.

It must be caused by the dreadful English cuisine, Poirot thought once he arrived at the door of Hastings’ cabin. He knocked without anticipating an answer, so when it didn’t come, he entered quietly and peeked into the dimness of the room. Irritated by the fact he wasn’t able to see much, he headed for the window to unfold the curtains. Stepping aside, he let the sunrays light up the space, and satisfied, he turned to the bed where he expected to find his friend, yet with surprise, he realized Hastings was nowhere to be found.

Poirot’s brain immediately started its thinking process, at first hinting that Hastings might’ve forgotten to lock the door when leaving as it wasn’t anything unusual for the trusting Englishman, however, Poirot was quite sure that he had managed to teach Hastings something about suspicion over the years. Hastings wasn’t keen on accepting that not everybody is as honest as him, but in the end, he admitted that locking his things up didn’t hurt anybody, and thus Poirot assumed that Hastings wouldn’t have made such a silly mistake. The remaining options weren’t probable either - Hastings might’ve locked the door, and somebody broke in, yet there were no traces of a violent entry, the only spare key must’ve been in the Captain’s pocket, and because Poirot doubted the Captain had any interests in searching through Hastings’ belongings, the other explanation of the situation must’ve been connected to the crew.

However, Poirot couldn’t see it as a plausible explanation for the sheets weren’t folded, which the maid wouldn’t have omitted. The bed wasn’t made, the blanket was crumpled, pillows scattered around, so it almost looked as if…

Poirot didn’t manage to finish the thought for he was interrupted by the sound of an opening door that didn’t lead outside the cabin, but only to the bathroom.

 _Well, that was the last option_ , crossed Poirot’s mind once his eyes were fixed upon Hastings who was just leaving the bathroom and halting in the middle of another movement.

“Poirot! I haven’t expected you!” exclaimed the Englishman rather redundantly.

“I can see that,” said Poirot who maintained his almost impassive façade, but a storm of emotions was raging within his soul. This sleepy Hastings was quite adorable, his confusion rather amusing, yet his ruffled appearance affected Poirot in an undue way as the Englishman was dressed only in his pyjama bottoms. It wasn’t necessary to employ Poirot’s memory to say that the detective had never seen Hastings less dressed than it was in the moment, and therefore Poirot even wasn’t shocked by his own reaction – he couldn’t tear his gaze away.

Of course, the days when Hastings’ body was muscled and bore the traces of a combat were long gone, and the occasional golf meeting couldn’t possibly hold a candle to the army drill, still Poirot eyed Hastings’ chest appreciatively. Thinking his expression was stoic, he wasn’t even insecure about the violent shiver, running down his spine.

When Poirot managed to look into Hastings’ face, he noticed that his friend seemed to feel better, but at once, he acknowledged the pinkish shade could’ve tinted his cheeks because of the situation they happened to be in.

“I probably should put some clothes on,” murmured Hastings, scratching his scalp, and resembling an embodiment of quandary, which Poirot found quite cute. While Hastings could’ve interpreted Poirot’s intent look as a disproving one, Poirot wanted to assure him that he didn’t aim at making Hastings feel any worse that he had already felt.

“It would not be necessary, mon ami,” he said in the very next moment, and as Hastings questioningly glanced at him, currently pulling his shirt out of the wardrobe, Poirot added: “You are unwell, Hastings, and your comfort is rather important. If you intended to stay in bed the whole day, it would not be wise to do so in a suit.” Nudging his head towards the bed to stress his point, Poirot desperately clang to this topic as he needed not to think of the view at Hastings’ naked back.

The Englishman’s lips curved into a little, yet grateful smile. He nodded, put the shirt back into the wardrobe, and walked to the bed, sitting on it, and then quite abruptly opted for drinking the whole glass of water, placed on the nightstand. Poirot was quietly watching him, immensely pleased that Hastings was following his orders and strived to be a good patient. As long as he lacked his taste, Poirot urged him to drink a lot, which his friend apparently tried to do.

Hastings moved backwards, leaning against the headboard, his legs bent in the knees where his forearms were lying, while Poirot sat in the armchair, forcing the idea of sitting next to Hastings to go away. He would love to, but the temptation was too great. The Englishman was so pale he seemed to be disappearing, however, the fact he was wearing just his pyjama pants was rendering his limbs look even longer, making his taller…

“Do I understand it correctly that your condition has not improved?” raised Poirot a question to have something to focus on, and moreover, to penetrate the prolonged silence between them, which he didn’t wish to become awkward.

“It’s actually not that bad,” Hastings shook his head, his voice resembling his usual one. “I have no appetite and my stomach is still… troubling me, but if I stay in bed, I hope it will pass in a couple of days.”

“You think so?”

“Of course, Poirot. I’ve underestimated my weakness gravely,” he sighed. “I shouldn’t have participated on the investigation at all. It drained me of all energy. The more I rest, the better I get.”

“Our journey back to England will be more enjoyable for you, I am sure of it,” Poirot tried to console his friend as he agreed with him on the point, however, Hastings was sometimes like a stubborn child, unable to follow his advice. He had simply insisted on figuring out who stole the bonds. “And do not worry yourself about the case. Everything will clear up once we will have returned to England in a few days.”

“I’d be glad to share your certainty,” remarked the Englishman sceptically, throwing his head backwards in resignation. It thumped dully once his scalp hit the headboard.

“Would you like me to provide you with some entertainment?” Poirot suggested, being quite aware that if Hastings was about to get better, he would need something to occupy his mind with when he wouldn’t be asleep. “What about a book? I might gather some slightly out-dated newspaper,” he said, while he allowed himself to literally devour Hastings with his eyes, admiring his lean neck and its skin, taunt upon the revealed Adam’s apple once Hastings swallowed. He then returned to his previous position and Poirot dropped his gaze, hoping the Englishman would remain blind to Poirot’s obviously hungry stare.

“Yes, please. That would be very nice of you, Poirot. Thank you,” answered Poirot bluntly, yet he managed to offer Poirot another small smile which Poirot would’ve reciprocated hadn’t he noticed the odd regret within the Captain’s eyes. 

“Before I tend to this task, shall I order some tea for you and tisane for me? I wouldn’t mind keeping you company for some time if you do not object, mon ami,” smiled Poirot at Hastings fondly, and the smile reached his eyes once the Englishman positively beamed at him. His eyes brimmed with gratitude, shining happily as in the moment he learnt they were going to board on Queen Mary. Together.

“I say, Poirot, that’s an excellent idea,” agreed Hastings enthusiastically, yet then he got serious again to assure Poirot: “But I do not wish to hinder your own entertainment here….”

“Do not be ridiculous, Hastings,” Poirot adviced him, rising to his feet and looking down at Hastings. “If I remember correctly, experiencing the cruise of Queen Mary was primarily your idea. Although the chain of events wasn’t exactly favourable, especially for you, it is no problem for Poirot to make the journey as pleasant for you as possible.”

As soon as Hastings grasped the meaning behind Poirot’s words, his features again mirrored immense happiness the Englishman was bursting with, and Poirot was unable to refrain from giving him a little smile. Then he peeked behind the door, ordered some tea, which arrived in about fifteen minutes, and Poirot made himself comfortable in the armchair, while musing over the fact he had never happened to be in such a situation. Fully dressed, sitting in an armchair, drinking his tisane and trying to be at most subtle about watching his dearest friend whom had already added a shirt to his apparel. Poirot didn’t approve of this move internally, yet he didn’t say anything aloud of course.

“Please tell me, Hastings, is this the very first time you’re suffering from seasickness?” asked Poirot, easing the Englishman down from gloom with which he was looking out of the window. 

“Yes, it is,” Hastings assented without tearing his gaze from the sea level. “I’ve spent many months on boards of various ships, smaller or bigger, and I’ve experienced calm sea, and also the ocean at its wildest, however, seasickness hasn’t struck me until this time. Not even a hint of it,” casted Hastings a slightly puzzled look at Poirot. “As far as I recall, I felt quite fine during my first cruise as well.”

“It is at most strange, mon ami,” admitted Poirot who anticipated a similar answer as he had no idea what caused Hastings’ unexpected condition. “You might have dove too much into our case… You might have overworked yourself,” he suggested.

“It’s possible,” said Hastings undecidedly, which caught Poirot’s attention more than were the answer decisive. However, instead of digging up more information, he just observed patiently his friend and waited until the Englishman would be willing to share more of his inner thoughts.

“I might’ve been just overenthusiastic,” Hastings sighed almost theatrically, yet the corners of his mouth curved upwards once the eyes of the two friends locked. Poirot again marvelled at the innocent and openness Hastings was gazing at him, aiming right at his heart that literally throbbed with love for the Englishman. The detective smiled a small understanding smile as well, yet his thoughts were racing within his mind like crazy, analysing every single twitch of Hastings’ features, striving to arrive to the conclusion whether the Captain was referring only to the cruise, or whether his words had an underlying meaning.

“Poirot?”

The detective blinked and focused on his friend, giving him an almost tender look.

“Comment?”

“I was asking whether this is your first cruise during which you are not suffering from seasickness,” Hastings explained, smiling and assuring Poirot that he must’ve plunged into his thoughts more than it would’ve been polite.

“I reckon it is my second one which I’m probably going to survive unscathed,” he said. “And I would be thrilled were it going to last throughout our journey back.”

“Likewise,” grimaced Hastings, and according to the amused sparks in his eyes, Poirot sensed that his friend was feeling a bit better. Definitely he looked more alive than the day before. Some rest did him good, which Poirot had in mind when spending just two hours with his friend, however, they used them well as they were discussing Hastings’ previous journeys from a continent to another continent. Although they had had conversations on the topic in the past, still the both of them thought it quite entertaining, especially Poirot who didn’t tend to display it, yet he enjoyed tales of Hastings’ adventures as he adored the combination of thrill and joy Hastings was describing them with. Poirot at most treasured the way Hastings was cheerful even about the smallest achievements, about quite futile things such as the result of cricket matches.

When it was about four in the afternoon, Poirot excused himself, thinking of checking whether anything about the case had changed or whether the bonds hadn’t mysteriously appeared somewhere. He promised Hastings to visit him during the evening or in the morning and to find him any interesting books or newspaper.

As the detective was leaving, Hastings tucked himself again under the sheets, opting for getting some more sleep and to regain his temporarily lost strength.


	2. Chapter 2

Poirot’s stroll stretched for some time, so Poirot settled for visiting Hasting after dinner. He discovered a couple out-of-date newspapers which he sent to Hastings’ cabin by a porter in order to help his friend overcome the unavoidable boredom, even though he supposed the Englishman was still asleep. This estimation was confirmed once Poirot knocked on the door of Hastings’ cabin later, and there was no answer to that. The detective entered anyway, quietly stepping towards the bed-stand where he placed two books he thought were acceptable for his friend. Hastings wasn’t much of a reader, but those two travel diaries might’ve been perfect for him.

“Thank you, Poirot,” said Hastings so softly, it even failed to spook the intruder.

“Forgive me, mon ami, I did not mean to wake you up,” Poirot mirrored Hastings’ quiet tone. Narrowing, he looked down at his friend whose eyes seemed to be gleaming in the darkness. In meanwhile, Poirot got used to the dim light, and once again he caught himself observing Hastings’ ruffled hair and at most brazenly opened shirt, which the Englishman didn’t opt for buttoning up even when he sat up and looked amicably at Poirot.

Poirot gulped, being already decided to speak up and wish Hastings good night, but Hastings didn’t let him:

“What have you found out?” asked Hastings curiously, and eagerness typical for his nature returned back from its vacation caused by Hastings’ sickness. “You must know who concocted the vicious plan!”

Poirot smiled secretively.

“I, indeed, am suspicious of somebody,” he admitted, “yet the name is going to be revealed only after we have returned to London, I’m afraid.”

“I shouldn’t have expected anything else,” Hasting’s joy fell down, but he didn’t sound too disappointed. “Will you tell me what you have figured out today? Without naming any suspicious elements, of course.”

“Without suspicious elements?” Poirot was quite amused. “It occurs that you tend to spent excessive periods of time with Inspector Japp, and it shows ,” he plunged into silence for a second before he addressed Hastings’ question. “We should leave it for tomorrow, shouldn’t we? Do you not wish to rest some more?”

“I’ve slept throughout a half of the afternoon,” Hastings shook his head in dismissal, leaning his back against the head of the bed. Taking his blanket with him, he made some space at the edge of the bed. It almost looked like he had done it on purpose. “Aren’t you exhausted due to today’s events, I’d be thrilled if you sacrifice your time to retell me what you’ve found out.”

Poirot didn’t want to turn Hastings down, and even though the social conventions and his own conscience advised him not to do so, Poirot seated himself in the closed possible place which was hardly an acceptable one – Hastings’ bed. The detective consoled himself by the fact that he wasn’t about to stay there for a long period of time, and by a tentative look in Hastings’ direction, his friend didn’t object. And he didn’t. The Englishman observed Poirot with curious anticipation written in his handsome face, and there was a small, friendly smile playing upon his lips, however, Poirot happened to be mesmerized by the bluest eyes of his friend as they seemed to be expressing much more than Hastings let his features reveal. It occurred to Poirot that Hastings was seriously struggling with something, yet the detective didn’t dare to guess what it could’ve been.

“Are you sure, mon ami? Shall I leave and let you rest? If you need it, only say so and I will return in the morning,” Poirot once again asked, honestly worried about Hastings’ condition, and moreover, Poirot simply didn’t know how to approach this issue Hastings was having troubles with, maybe he even preferred Hastings thinking it through, which… which Poirot needed to do as well because there could’ve been a reason for Hastings insecurity, yet Poirot didn’t allow his mind to dwell much on it right now.

“No, no, Poirot, I’m quite alright,” Hastings blurted out in the next moment, his voice vibrating with determination seemingly unnecessary for such a situation, and thus not really succeeding in masking he, indeed, wasn’t entirely alright. However, his behaviour reached the category of an intriguing one, so Poirot stayed also to observe.

“Bein,” he nodded then, and into the dimness of the room, while sitting in Hastings’ bed, Poirot started the narration of what he had learnt, perfectly aware of his friend, eagerly taking in every single word Poirot uttered. He retold him what he had seen and heard, and a bit hinted what he was currently thinking of the whole matter. Although he didn’t mention anything about the possible culprit, which Hastings didn’t forget to rumble about, the Englishman was more or less content about it.

“I’m terribly confused,” admitted Hastings once Poirot finished the narration. “You think that the papers haven’t left England, don’t you?”

“It would surprise me if they had,” said Poirot.

“Unbelievable,” Hastings murdered, bringing a little smirk upon Poirot’s lips as such a reaction was typical for Hastings. What seemed to be really unbelievable to Poirot was the fact they were sitting in Hastings’ bed in complete darkness without any of them bothering to turn a light on, however… however, Poirot sensed that it would’ve ruined the cosy, and a pleasantly intimate atmosphere between them, while the dimness allowed them to ignore their close proximity as under the revealing power of the light, it would’ve been too much to process.

He trembled when rekindling the idea of Hastings pulling the blanket away on purpose, aiming to nudge Poirot to sit next to him, to sway him from opting for an armchair, sway him from putting some distance between them. These were just speculation, but Poirot was almost sure that Hastings kept the light off in order to preserve the intimacy of the moment, while the single thought brought about a quivering wave of hope, filling up Poirot’s soul, and occurring to be the most intense Poirot had ever experienced.

“Ridgeway is innocent then, isn’t he?” Hastings raised a question that eased Poirot back to reality, still the detective wondered how he was able to hear Hastings’ voice through the loud heartbeat, resonating in his ears. He was grateful though for the opportunity to point his attention at something else.

“Yes, I reckon he is not guilty,” Poirot offered his friend a confirmation yet he didn’t resist from elaboration: “I would not dare calling him innocent, but in terms of the precious papers, he would not steal them as he knows he would have been the prime suspect.”

“Well… that makes sense,” admitted Hastings under his breath, again plunging into his thoughts, while Poirot thought it would be for the best to retreat to his cabin. It was getting rather late, but most importantly his body started to ache from the weird position when being braced by the head of the bed, yet having his legs dangling over the mattress, which was, by the way, too soft for Poirot’s liking. Still there was another dilemma Poirot acknowledged he was faced with – he wasn’t sure whether Hastings’ open shirt irked him, so he was tempted to button it up, or whether his insecurity was coming from his desire to open Hastings’ shirt even further, revealing the pale skin, then ruffling his hair that was already messy from the sleep…

“It’s a very unsettling matter,” remarked Hastings as he finished his musings over the case, and Poirot, sure that Hastings couldn’t see him, rolled his eyes but not because he was stating the obvious concerning the case, but rather because he kind of managed to sum up the situation Poirot found himself in. He was confused, insecure, but quite in good mood which was enforced significantly when the Englishman gave Poirot a little smile. “Thank you, Poirot, for staying with me and providing me with something I can turn over in my head during the sleepless nights.”

“Je vous en prie, mon ami,“ said Poirot quietly, yet feeling the words weren’t enough, he opted for reaching out to Hastings’ palm lying upon the blanket, and squeezed his hand gently. “Anything, Hastings, simply anything to help my dear friend,” he added, eyes fixed upon Hastings’ face, and once again, the pair of blue eyes were brimming with gratitude. Despite that, Poirot couldn’t miss the hint of worry, hidden in the depths of Hastings’ eyes, yet as Hastings dropped his gaze, Poirot just assumed the Englishman was being embarrassed by the displayed emotions. On one hand, Hastings could’ve been uncomfortable, but… as they were leaning against the head of the bed, the distance between them scandalously little… but on the other hand, Hastings averted his gaze, yes, yet only to look down at their connected hands, staring at them silently.

The detective gulped, but his face was lip up by a small smile that had no power to express all of the emotions storming in Poirot’s soul, while his hope literally erupted, spreading to each part of his body, and making him feel quite light-headed.

A bit worried that it might’ve been actually too much for him, Poirot reconsidered his return to his cabin in order to think, to evaluate Hastings’ reactions, his behaviour, and also to investigate his memories whether it might’ve been possible that Hastings had ever hinted he could be romantically interested in his Belgian friend.

Just the thought of it sent another shiver down Poirot’s spine, and to make sure he wouldn’t do anything unpremeditated, Poirot gave the last reassuring squeeze to Hastings’ hand before he withdrew, not even surprised by the warm smile Hastings flashed him with. There was a question in his eyes, but pure happiness as well.

“Please, mon ami, excuse old Poirot for now. The little grey cells demand rest,” the pair of brown eyes sparkled when looking at Hastings kindly. “I sure will visit you in the morning just before we should venture on the land.”

“I say, that’s a splendid idea, Poirot,” Hastings didn’t disappoint Poirot in the slightest as the Englishman immediately succumbed to a wave of enthusiasm. “I cannot wait to walk on a solid ground that’s not all wobbly underneath my feet.”

“Bien,” Poirot nodded and got up from the bed. “Until morning then. Good night, Hastings,” he said, checking whether his coat was representative enough to leave the cabin.

“Good night,” Hastings reciprocated, upon which Poirot left Hastings on his own and headed for his cabin, yet his mind was preoccupied with thoughts on Hastings, by that shadow of fear within his eyes, partially covered by joy and gratitude, so he was wandering on the deck for a long period of time than it was necessary. Moreover, he couldn’t shake off the idea that he would’ve done anything, would’ve sacrificed almost anything he adored if Hastings’ feelings were as real as Poirot sensed were. Despite the fact his thoughts weren’t in order and his emotions unable to settle, his hope that Hastings could be interested in him made him fall asleep with the corners of his lips twitched upwards in a subtle manner of a happy smile.


	3. Chapter 3

His mind clear again, Poirot headed to Hastings’ cabin in the next morning. He got up quite early, and thus decided to visit his friend prior breakfast, while he definitely opted for this order only because he wanted to make sure that Hastings wasn’t going to oversleep. After all, Poirot supposed the Englishman would need at least half an hour to prepare himself to venture on the coast, and Poirot’s desperately curbed desire to spot his friend just in pyjamas again had certainly nothing to do with being in Hastings’ cabin so early. Not in the slightest did he wish to see Hastings’ hair ruffled and his shirt crumpled which would’ve irked the detective under different circumstances.

He strived not to dwell on it, however, the idea of ruining Hastings’ appearance even more, making him look scandalously debauched… such an idea kept bringing a series of shivers down Poirot’s spine.

Being clueless about the excessive way his body reacted to such images, Poirot put these thoughts aside and focused on reality in which he opened the door of Hastings’ cabin, and once he slipped inside, he was faced with dimness of the room again. Soon enough, he noticed that a small lamp was lit off though, and Poirot easily interpreted the cause of it – Hastings was sleeping on his side, embracing a newspaper that he had received in the evening.

Without his consciousness nagging at him, Poirot enjoyed watching his friend. Smiling tenderly at the sight of utterly peaceful Hastings, he wondered what the Englishman was dreaming of, yet still his mind was mostly occupied by the fact how adorable and innocent Hastings was. It literally fascinated Poirot as he approached the sleeping man, pondering the next step because such a situation perfectly suited Poirot to get a hint of Hastings’ feeling towards him.

Well, there weren’t many possible outcomes – Hastings was either about to wake up, puzzled, but not entirely annoyed, or he was going to wake up with a happy grin splayed upon his face, revealing that he at most welcomed such a way out of his dreams.

When Poirot was thinking alone in his bed, he reached a conclusion that Hastings’ recent behaviour, his looks, smiles, and gestures were rightfully boosting up his hope, and that it wasn’t just Poirot’s wishful thinking. Although it seemed that Hastings could’ve been interested, Poirot still stepped towards his friend with a lump in his throat, anticipation turning his hands shaky.

At first, Hastings didn’t show a signs he was aware of the fingers, brushing gently his hair. Sleeping tightly, he didn’t mind the touch, so Poirot indulged himself to caress Hastings’s hair for a bit longer, letting the soft locks sliding between his fingers, but after a while he finally opted for waking his friend up and reminding him the schedule of the day.

“Hastings,” he said quietly, and then repeated it, yet his voice quivered as the detective was hit hard by the Englishman who kept sleeping, but literally moved towards the caressing touch.

Positively caught off guard by Hastings’ reaction, by how much he welcomed the touch, Poirot panicked for a brief second, unable to rationally think anymore whether to withdraw his hand, whether to… to… No, he decided to leave his hand weaved in Hastings’ hair and face the possible consequences. Giving him another gentle touch, this time Poirot employed also his manicured nails, eliciting a sound resembling purring from Hastings.

“You are going to be the death of me, mon cher Hastings,” Poirot murmured when watching his dearest friend, his features mirroring disbelief and love as he couldn’t grasp that Hastings was so happily accepting Poirot’s touch. The detective wasn’t able to express what he felt in words, there was nothing going on in his mind while savouring the intimate moment he wished to last longer, however, he really needed Hastings to wake up. He addressed the Englishman again, a bit louder this time.

Hastings’ next movement took Poirot’s breath away. As he started waking up, he nudged into Poirot’s hand so vehemently that Poirot didn’t manage to react and suddenly, Poirot was touching Hastings’ cheek. The pair of blue eyes blinked sleepily at the detective, the already pinkish cheeks gaining darker shade right after Hastings realized what was happening. A shy smile appeared upon his lips, and even though Poirot was on the verge of panic once again, he reciprocated the gesture.

“Good morning, Hastings,” Poirot forced out to penetrate not only the silence, but also the strangely intense moment brimming with untold words and concealed feelings none of them was prepared to reveal yet. Poirot courageously fought the urge to drop his gaze and avoid the question in Hastings’ eyes together with the tenderness Hastings was looking at him with, but once Poirot withdrew his hand from Hastings’ face, the Englishman solved the dilemma for the both of them and averted his eyes himself.

“Good morning,” said Hastings, his voice cracking before he cleared his throat, his expression slightly confused when he discovered a newspaper in the bed. Snorting with amusement, he then folded the newspaper and placed on the nightstand, upon which he again looked at Poirot whom already put some distance between them. Suddenly, everything seemed alright as if nothing intimate happened, as if nothing that made their hearts throb with hope happened. In the end, Poirot even welcomed it and felt quite relieved when Hastings simply asked about the time.

“Half past seven, mon ami,” Poirot informed him. “We should reach the coast approximately at nine.”

“Well… I’ll be ready,” promised Hastings, but then he hesitated. “Maybe I should eat something…”

“Shall I expect you to join me at breakfast?” looked Poirot curiously at his friend, while he was beaming with joy on the inside. Hastings was finally getting his appetite back!

“I’d like to think so,” shrugged the Englishman. “It depends whether you’ll be there in about… half an hour?”

“I might remain there even longer were they about to bring me an asymmetric pair of eggs again” Poirot couldn’t refrain from complaining, which resulted in Hastings giving a chuckle.

“You should try to negotiate this with the hens. They should be in charge of the shape of the eggs, not the chief,” Hastings suggested, his grin bright when watching Poirot getting all pompous.

“You should try to negotiate with the hens yourself, mon ami. Poirot never spends time by conversations with livestock,” Poirot glanced down at Hastings, grimacing at the silly idea. “Especially with those that cannot understand the magic of symmetricity.”

This time Hastings burst out with laughter.

Poirot couldn’t comprehend what was so funny about his statement, but as Hastings was laughing, being so relaxed and cheerful, Poirot didn’t mind it in the slightest. It had been a long time since he had witness Hastings in such a state, which contributed to Poirot’s decision not feel offended by Hastings’ reaction. He just shook his head and offered the Englishman a little smile.

“And I have heard that Englishmen aren’t able to display emotions,” remarked Poirot in good humour, but once Hastings calmed down, he seemed a bit insecure about the meaning of these words, as if he couldn’t decide whether the detective wasn’t referring to something else. But the spoken detective was running out of his patience, and thus said:

“I’ll wait for you in the restaurant,” he informed Hastings, waited for him to nod, and then left the cabin, heading for the said restaurant.

Hastings joined him in twenty minutes and in quite a dashing fashion, yet Poirot for once didn’t pay much attention to his apparel, caring a lot more for Hastings’ stomach. He would’ve been very unhappy were his friend going to burden it with a heavy meal so abruptly. However, Poirot was substantially satisfied that Hastings continued in being a good patient, ordering just a couple of toasts and a cup of coffee. His expression was quite puzzled though when he realized Poirot was bestowing him with an approving look, resembling even a proud one.

“I am very much pleased you feel better,” Poirot revealed only the necessary to explain his smile, yet it was enough to bring a grin to Hastings’ lips, his eyes shining fondly.

They spent basically the whole day in similarly relaxed atmosphere as they enjoyed taking a stroll on the coast, savoured companionable silence when sitting at a café, restaurant, or just in a park. Without discussing any cases, either the past or the present ones, they talked about simple things, things almost trivial, yet the both them welcomed the way their lives slowed down a bit. Subconsciously, Poirot was aware of the elephant in the room, of the unsaid words between them, but it didn’t seem to affect them at all. They were just two friends, enjoying themselves as if nothing odd had happened.

Their return to the ship wasn’t any different. They bid each other goodbye and in high spirits, they headed for their respective cabins to rest for a while before they would attend dinner. Nothing really signified that something was amiss, quite the opposite as Poirot was a bit weary, yet his mood was excellent. It wasn’t easy to maintain his façade and not to walk around with a silly smile splayed upon his face as he felt light-headed.

The high spirits didn’t abandon him even after two hours when Poirot was standing in front of the mirror, and once he gathered he looked impeccably, he glanced at his watch. It was too early for him to actually appear in the restaurant, so he opted for a little walk towards the stern of the ship.

As his eyes then observed the view, he admitted it wasn’t bad to peacefully watch the horizon, yet Poirot hadn’t been made to appreciate it much, thus once the time was right, he started for the restaurant.

“Monsieur,” the captain of the ship nodded towards Poirot as he passed him by in the door, leading to the deck.

“Captain,” bowed Poirot slightly before he intended to continue in his journey. He really didn’t wish to spent much time with the captain as he wasn’t satisfied with the process of the case at all, complaining about its stagnation.

“Are you heading for the restaurant?” the captain inquired, making Poirot stop and look at him.

“Oui,” Poirot offered a polite smile. “May I ask for the reason of your question, monsieur?”

“It’s just that the man… that your Hastings is waiting there for you,” shrugged the captain.

“Merci,” said Poirot after he took the information in, bowed again, and deeply in thoughts and confused by the formulation of the captain’s words, he left the man alone.

Had he really been so blind? Unable to notice how far-reaching Hastings’ devotion was? A bit annoyed by himself, Poirot muttered under his breath that it wasn’t possible he spotted some traces of Hastings’ feelings towards him only when they had boarded Queen Mary. Or maybe… maybe Poirot simply hadn’t allowed himself to see the traces, hadn’t allowed himself to admit there might be a possibility…

Well, it might’ve been that, he conceded as it wasn’t that surreal he would’ve ignored all the hints because he forced himself not to in order to avoid vain hope which, however, didn’t seem to be vain anymore. The less vain it seemed, the more Poirot wished he was right, and once he arrived to the restaurant, his eyes automatically searched for Hastings whom looked utterly dashing in his dinner jcket. Of course, Poirot had encountered his friend wearing the dinner jacket in the past, yet as the Englishman rose from the table, displaying his respect towards Poirot, it was as if Poirot suddenly saw him in a different light. As if only then he was capable of noticing Hastings’ expression wasn’t just friendly, and in combination with his warm smile and fondness shining within his blue eyes, Poirot froze in the middle of his movement.

Dumfounded, he remained standing in the door of the restaurant, his palm clenched in fists due to the emotional struggle that was far too intense to be ignored.

He couldn’t have been standing there for long as Hastings’ look was still innocent, happy, and lacking any signs of worry or suspicion. Or it might’ve been caused by the fact that Hastings didn’t mind patiently waiting for him, while in the very moment, Poirot didn’t want to leave him alone anymore.

He moved again, with each step regaining his self-confidence as he casted a few greetings and smiles to the fellow passengers who addressed him as he passed them by, yet his attention always returned to the one and only Englishman who kept looking at him with adoration written in every feature of his handsome face. It reminded him of the formulation of the captain’s words, saying that _his Hastings_ was waiting for him, and had Poirot argued with the man about his words, he wouldn’t have been right.


	4. Chapter 4

“Good evening, old friend,” beamed Hastings at Poirot once the latter approached the table.

“Very good, indeed,” Poirot agreed with the Englishman, while he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the pair of blue eyes, looking at Poirot with a subtle hint of surprise that might’ve evolved into a shock had Poirot followed his inners desires regarding Hastings. He craved… he really craved to show Hastings how much he treasured him, but then he sighed, sat down, and as his friend did the same, Poirot noticed that his bowtie was perfectly symmetrical.

It could’ve been the luck’s doing, but Poirot knew there was a slim chance Hastings paid enough attention to his apparel and managed to keep it straight this time, still he was amused by it. Moreover he welcomed the unexpected food for thought as he didn’t need to focus on the fact that Hastings was utterly beautiful in his dinner jacket, yet he would’ve preferred seeing him again in pyjamas, with his shirt wide open and hair ruffled.

Shaking his head, Poirot strived to disperse such improper ideas, and thus he occupied himself with the menu Hastings had just handed him. It was in the same moment he heard the Englishman’s order.

“Are you sure, Hastings?” asked Poirot, his voice dripping with irony. “You’ve survived one set of stomach ache and you are already going for the next one?”

“We live only once, Poirot,” Hastings answered jovially, “and when I’m finally able to savour the hospitality of Queen Mary, I shall do so!”

Poirot gave him a sceptical look from the top of the menu, while on the inside he was pondering whether Hastings could’ve had something else on his mind when saying those words, but as he knew Hastings so well, he refrained from the thought. After all, Hastings currently settled for an observation of the crowd, his expression innocent and content, so Poirot returned to the menu.

During the evening, the pleasant atmosphere between them was again intact, and the both of them were quite enjoying their conversation. Hastings was having a pint of beer, Poirot opted for a glass of brandy, yet he refused another one as he was worried that the more alcohol he would consume, the more his feelings and desires would make themselves known.

“Shall we depart?” Hastings asked when he finished his beer.

“You do not have to, mon ami. Of course, you can stay and enjoy yourself here,” Poirot assured him.

“There is nothing I wish to enjoy more than your company,” smiled the Englishman and Poirot resisted shaking his head again at the honesty Hastings displayed. Still, he was bursting with happiness on the inside thanks to Hastings’ words.

“I think you overestimate me, mon cher Hastings, yet I am far from telling you that you are entirely wrong,” Poirot gave Hastings a amused smirk, which the Englishman watched with a friendly smile before the both men rose from the table.

While moving towards cabins, Poirot was sort of baffled by Hastings’ abrupt silence. Usually, he would spend the dull journey with talking an utterly unimportant topic, yet this time, Hastings seemed to be too occupied with thinking and didn’t say a word. It intrigued Poirot a lot, so he let his friend alone, he didn’t press for any information and just kept walking until they reached Poirot’s cabin, and the detective simply gave in to a touched smile as Hastings appeared at most puzzled once Poirot stopped at the door.

“Oh… we have arrived at your cabin, haven’t we?” he asked in such a surprised matter, it immensely boosted up Poirot’s curiosity over what was going on in the Englishman’s head.

“We have, mon ami,” Poirot assured him, adding carefully, “You seem to struggle with something though…”

“Yes, I… I am,” hesitated Hastings a bit before he assented, dropping his gaze down, but Poirot managed to notice his cheeks gaining a hint of pink colour.

In the moment, Poirot’s hope flew up to the skies. Trying to calm down his violently beating heart, Poirot refrained from saying anything else as he didn’t want to miss whether Hastings would decide to elaborate, yet… yet he would’ve never imagined Hastings’ following words to be so thought-through.

¨The Captain raised his eyes, fixing them upon Poirot’s face as he asked: “Would you… would you mind walking me to my cabin, Poirot?”

It could’ve sounded as a simple question. It could’ve have, naturally, but Poirot knew it wasn’t the case judging from Hastings’ serious expression, judging from the way his words hit Poirot deep inside, making his chest too heavy to breathe properly. The both of them realized what the stakes were, and Poirot once again couldn’t believe his friend’s courage.

“I wouldn’t mind, Hastings, not at all,” Poirot said softly, his throat getting dry when Hastings’ eyes shone with something he had never seen there before, with something resembling a different kind of hunger. However, Hastings recomposed himself quickly and offered his friend an unfocused little smile before they ventured to Hastings’ cabin.

Again, they plunged into silence that became inexplicably crowded with unspoken words and supressed feelings, and the closer to the cabin they got, the more Poirot was losing himself in the chaotic thoughts, unable to decipher which ones were truthful and which weren’t. Gradually, his mind endeavoured to convince him he must’ve been seeing things or that he interpreted Hastings’ words incorrectly, but Poirot resolutely pushed such ridiculous ideas aside. He knew what he had seen in Hastings’ eyes, and their speech was clear, said Poirot to himself when they halted at Hastings’ cabin and in a span of a few seconds, Poirot was invited in.

As he stepped inside, Poirot was helpless against the wave of arousal surging through his body. He heard Hastings closing the door behind them, and moreover, he heard the click of him locking the door. Flabbergasted by the situation, Poirot found himself standing in the narrow corridor, unable to move, resulting in Hastings, turning to him from the door and being extremely close to him. Awe crossed features of the both men, causing Poirot to completely acknowledge the almost non-existing distance between them, which robbed him of all self-esteem. He was trapped between a wall and Hastings, whom was looking down at him, his eyes gentle and curious, brimming with anticipation and probably something else that made Poirot lower his gaze.

He couldn’t believe that his own cheeks were getting hot under Hastings’ look. It hadn’t happened to him for long years, and it confused him slightly as he suddenly had no idea what to do, but once he spotted Hastings’ bowtie, a wave of relief helped him clear his head.

Without further ado, Poirot raised his hands to lay his fingers on the bowtie, straightening it until he was satisfied.

“Has it been askew?” Hastings asked quietly and he was so close that Poirot felt his breath upon his face, still not daring to look up.

“ _Plus maintenant_ ,” Poirot uttered more or less redundantly, but he didn’t manage to pay more attention to his answer as his thinking process was shattered by Hastings’ palm, covering his own that was still holding the bowtie in its place.

“I like when you are taking care of me,” whispered Hastings and Poirot felt the Englishman was closing the gap between them. His heart made a leap as Poirot heard: “I appreciate it very much,” and then Hastings’ lips gently caressed Poirot’s cheek.

Although it might’ve been just a gesture of gratitude, it took Poirot’s breath away as it embodied the last proof that Hastings had strong feelings for him, suggesting that they could be more than friends because… because his lips lingered on Poirot’s face for too long, because he didn’t show any signs of haste to put some distance between them again because the blue of his eyes was shy, yet eager, loving, yet blazing. Hastings refrained from hiding anything from Poirot anymore, and he was looking at Poirot with his heart on the sleeve.

“Hastings…” began Poirot softly, and once he was sure the Englishman was listening, he added, “You must do it twice. Always.”

For a couple of seconds, Hastings was apparently clueless about what Poirot was talking about, but once he grasped it, he grinned and his eyes shone with amusement which soon was replaced by tender determination. Bowing down again, he went for Poirot’s other cheek, and under different circumstances scandalously violated his personal space to kiss him. Even this time Hastings didn’t rush the withdrawal, so Poirot, whose cheeks were literally burning, his heart throbbing, and whose desire grew irresistible… so Poirot… once he sensed Hastings was about to pull away, once he felt his hot breath upon his cheek… he didn’t allow Hastings to withdraw utterly. He just slightly tilted his head and successfully sought Hastings’ lips with his own.

Once he did so, another wave of arousal washed over his body, his chest was constricted with emotions, yet still he couldn’t resist from smiling a little smug smile due to Hastings’ reaction because the Englishman froze up, then firmly grasped Poirot’s hand in his own, and only then he kissed Poirot back. Suddenly, he was kissing Poirot with enthusiasm, with urgency, with passion, while Poirot reciprocated in the same manner. Hastings very subtle perfume tickled his nose and he clasped Hastings’ hand, holding him tight, but it was another Hastings’ movement that persuaded Poirot that Hastings was utterly sure about this – he put his other hand on Poirot’s hip and pressed their bodies together.

Catching his breath, Poirot couldn’t tear his gaze away from Hastings’ red, wet lips when their lips parted, and he was totally mesmerized by the look, and also by the raw want with which desired to kiss those lips again. When he finally managed to look up, he was immediately lost in Hastings’ eyes as their blue colour was blazing with sheer hunger, which Poirot was struggling to believe it. He had never seen Hastings in such a state and with such a feral expression, so he stared at him, fascinated by the change of his innocent friend, by the gleam of his eyes, mirroring how intrigued by the situation Hastings was. And Poirot wasn’t able to recall any words that would describe the way he felt when Hastings was looking at him like this.

“I would… I would hate to do something wrong, Poirot,” Hastings finally spoke up, his voice shaking. “I don’t want to spoil anything and I would have never forgiven myself had I done anything you didn’t wish for, but…” he trailed off, and as he was striving to find the right words, he shut his eyes and his grimace resembled a tortured one before he again looked at his world, in other words at Poirot, while his body succumbed to another tremble. “I don’t have a clue what I’d love to… to do… what is expected… but I want it so much, Poirot, I… I don’t know how much I’ll be able to control myself.”

Hastings’ honesty and quandary made Poirot’s heart swell. It didn’t matter whether Hastings’ eyes were shining with lust or sheer joy due to a victorious game of cricket, this man was still his Hastings whose innocence appeared to be evaporating by each second though. For a moment, Poirot dwelled on an idea that he is about to corrupt him even more than he already had, but once he rekindled the fact Hastings was holding him close, his hand upon Poirot’s one, the detective brought him own palm up to plant it on the Englishman’s neck. By that gesture, he finally let go of all his doubts behind.

“I acknowledge your words, mon cher Hastings,” he smiled encouragingly at Hastings. “However, I assure you that in terms of your self-control, I would be thrilled to see you lose all it...”

Poirot’s suggestion literally set up a fire in Hastings’ eyes, which was exactly what Poirot desired to see, moreover he happily welcomed the way Hastings’ grip got firmer on his hip. Soon enough, his lips happened to clash with Hastings’, and at first he sensed the Englishman tried to curb his passion, but then Poirot ran out of patience and almost purred when Hastings obediently parted his lips once Poirot demanded to be let in. The detective’s heart swelled when Hastings, encouraged, withdrew his hand to occupy his fingers with Poirot’s buttons.

After quite a long time, there was nothing going on in Poirot’s mind but the engulfing feeling of having Hastings’ hungry mouth upon his own, and of having his broad palms splayed on his chest once Hastings’ fought through the buttons. He settled for experiencing the heat of the skin through the layer of the shirt, letting Poirot non-verbally know how much he wanted him, which… which struck Poirot unguarded. Abruptly, he couldn’t cope with Hastings’ desire, so he gently, very gently pushed Hastings' away, looking at the Englishman whom just managed to roll the jacket from Poirot’s shoulders. Then he helped him to get out of it, and standing there, he asked a very important question:

“Shall I fold it?”

It took a couple of seconds for Poirot to understand what Hastings was referring to, he even frowned in confusion, but he quickly gave a helpless chuckle.

“Put it behind your back, on the rag please,” he replied in the end, not really wondering that Hastings felt an urge to ask about that. It was even logical to assume Poirot had ended their kiss to follow at least some parts of his undressing routine, yet this time Poirot conceded to make an exception. Smiling fondly at his dearest friend, he waited till he did as suggested, and then he placed his palm upon Hastings’ face, caressing his cheek and looking lovingly in his slightly puzzled blue eyes. “Regarding the other pieces of our respective apparels, do not fret yourself about them. Just… throw them somewhere and we will tend to them later.”

Absolutely dumbfounded, Hastings raised his eyebrows, but as Poirot’s gaze was unyielding, he realized he wasn’t being fooled with and his eyes gleamed, maybe even with quiet relief.

“Very well,” Hastings nodded, smiling tenderly at Poirot. “Could I kiss you once more?”

Poirot sighed, touched and struggling to believe how much Hastings wanted this. Wanted him. Poirot had never allowed himself to think of such a scenario, not even his dreams were so greedy, but the Englishman was standing in front of him, and were Poirot totally daring in his estimations, Hastings’ eyes were utterly devouring him.

“Is anything wrong?” Hastings asked carefully, unsure about Poirot’s silence.

“Peut-être, Hastings,“ decided Poirot to be absolutely honest with his friend. “Maybe it’s too much, maybe I am not able to cope with the way you… Hastings…” lacking the correct words again, Poirot dropped his gaze, cleared his throat, but forced himself to speak up even though it wasn’t quite comfortable for him. “Hastings, I do not comprehend why now. Why today? You’re looking at me as if…” talking himself into glancing up, getting lost in the love shining in the bluest eyes at once. “You’re looking at me as if you’ve been wanting this to happen for years, but… my dear, Hastings, why now?”

The Englishman’s fond smile calmed Poirot’s bewildered thoughts down, and only then Hastings grinned at him, teeth shining like shark’s ones.

“My observation skills have improved remarkably, that is a simple fact, but I don’t need to be a detective, Poirot, to decipher the kind of look you gave me when you surprised me in my cabin and I was wearing only my pyjama bottoms,” he revealed cheerfully. “I’ve been having feelings for you for a long time, but I have never been really sure about you until that very moment. And truth be told, old chap, you were rather obvious back then!”

As Poirot was contemplating whether to be amused or mad at himself, Hastings continued:

“I wasn’t at my best though, so I didn’t dare acting on my feelings or commenting on it, but… but had I had any doubts about your feelings towards me, I forgot all of them when I woke up with you, brushing my hair,” softened Hastings’ eyes significantly upon remembering the tender moment. “And why today? Why now? I did not wish to wait any longer,” he shrugged, and Poirot once again found himself utterly speechless due to Hastings’ sincerity.

“I cannot apologize enough, Hastings, for ruining our moment. My thoughts, you… and I…” it felt unbelievable, but Poirot couldn’t gather words suitable for what he strived to express, but Hastings’ fond look assured him the Englishman understood perfectly.

“I know, Poirot,” he said, eyes warm and kind. “Do not worry about that. We can start over.”

Although Poirot wasn’t entirely sure what Hastings meant by it, he grasped it once Hastings slowly diminished the distance between them and kissed Poirot sweetly, tenderly, while he embraced the detective, placing his hand on his lower back, thus giving Poirot enough space to manoeuvre his arms, which he planted on Hastings’ shoulders, joining his palm behind his neck. And despite the fact he couldn’t wait to see Hastings topless again, he felt content about having him so close fully dressed, holding him, hugging him, and just savouring the course their relationship was taking.

A course where the words _Your Hastings_ could gain almost literal meaning.


End file.
